


Butterflies

by ScripStrel



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Banter, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Love Confessions, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 22:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScripStrel/pseuds/ScripStrel
Summary: Jeremy's insides itched, and he was tempted to blame it on the weed, but considering he was technically on a date, it was hard to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.





	Butterflies

"Do your organs ever itch?" Michael asked, flat on his ass in a bean bag and staring at the popcorn-insulated ceiling of his basement bedroom.

"What the shit, dude?" Jeremy looked over from his own sprawled position. His best friend was blurry and so comatose he could honestly just be mistaken for a pile of dirty clothes if not for his breathing.

Michael grunted, flapping a hand around. "Like," he started, "like they itch. Like bugs crawling around your internal organs? But you can't scratch ‘em 'cuz they're inside you?"

"Not when I'm sober."

"You're not sober," said Michael, which was true. The basement flickered in and out of Jeremy's vision, seeping between his gummed-up eyes. A string of smoke lingered around them, trailing from the half-lit joint between Michael's fingers. Jeremy's nostrils stung with secondhand smoke, and his insides itched.

Probably not in the way Michael meant, though.

"That doesn't mean you can make me think about bugs in my intestines. That shit's gross," Jeremy said.

Michael took another hit and blew lazily into the air. "No different than butterflies in your stomach."

Maybe that was the kind of itching Jeremy was feeling. It was softer than spider legs would be (just the thought of _that_ sent goosebumps across his skin, even when high). More fluttery.

"Digest 'em," Jeremy said, suddenly unable to fight off a flurry of giggles. Maybe his clearly un-digested butterflies were tickling him.

Michael gave him a look, warm and fond and bloodshot over the glasses that were slowly slipping down his nose. He blew another puff at smoke in Jeremy's face, and he coughed slightly, still unable to bite back his grin. "Did you know that when a caterpillar turns into a butterfly it turns into soup?" asked Michael.

"Like I said," said Jeremy, fumbling at Michael's fingers for the joint and ignoring the obvious pain when he got a fistful of fire on his way to grabbing it. He took a hit and released it through his teeth dramatically (though, it probably looked ridiculous instead of tough and suave like his smoky brain envisioned).  "Digest those bitches."

"But, like..." Michael hummed under his breath, staring around the room. Jeremy laughed again at _just how high_ he was. Jeremy loved High Michael. He loved Sober Michael too, and even Normal Michael, who was usually somewhere in between. But. Just. He was so _pretty_ when he was relaxed. That dopey smile and the faraway gaze and the way he let his hair fall limp and ruffled over the top of his glasses. He was sleepy and giggly and it was such a far cry from his usual keyed-up, tense energy (no one would notice it was forced if they didn't already know Michael as the biggest fucking introvert out there, but Jeremy had learned to interpret the hood and the headphones pretty damn well by now). "Like... D'you think a cat—cater—pill—" He stumbled over the word, laughing at his own joke before it had made it past his teeth. "A caterpillar just like. Starts knitting and jus—just wonders 'what the fuck am I doing?'"

Jeremy snuffed out the joint. He was starting to wonder what the fuck _he_ was doing. Just in general. School was shitty and confusing as always, his friend group was all over the place, and his dad was trying to figure out what exactly wearing pants meant about being a parent.

But the main thing was him wondering what he was doing getting stoned in Michael’s basement on Valentine’s Day. What kind of first date was that? Whatever happened to daydreams of fancy dinners and boxes of chocolate?

Mmm. Chocolate. His smoke-filled brain liked the thought of that.

But yeah. First date. That was a thing too.

Michael—stoned out of his mind—was giggling under his breath, and Jeremy’s heart melted. He loved this. He wasn’t entirely sure when _this_ had started, when he’d started considering the possibility, and honestly he was too high to really have any concept of time, but he really loved this. He always had. Just sitting with his favorite person in the whole world, letting the comfortable silence swirl between them with the smoke.

Idly, Jeremy realized that Michael had shifted to throw an arm around him, still limp and loopy, except he'd clearly made a conscious effort to get closer to him. The warm weight sent waves of heat across his skin, and Jeremy's heart rocketed in his chest. Maybe that was why they'd decided to make their first date the same as any old hangout. Jeremy's nerves were through the roof, unsure of the new territory, and this way he had sweet, sweet drugs to help him chill out.

Of course, the lack of time to process was probably not helping his anxiety.

Middleborough High School was one of many which did singing Valentines. Horribly cheesy in Jeremy's opinion, not to mention absolutely mortifying. Who wanted to pay money to be tuned into a zoo animal? Sitting on a streamer-covered stool in front of his english class and getting serenaded was not Jeremy's idea of a good time, even if it got him out of a few minutes of essay writing. But, of course, his best friend (and long-time secret admirer, so he'd learned) was a total sap. Plus, Christine—an avid member of every performance art she could worm her way into—was a great advertiser and even better wingman.

Those were _her_ words. In reality, Michael had mentioned his crush to her and debated asking Jeremy out with a Valentune (punny name, sure, but it was way too obvious _not_ to use), mostly as a joke. Christine jumped the gun and made the final leap for him. After blushing his way through a rendition of some Pentatonix rip-off, Jeremy had been handed a handwritten note on a construction paper heart.

_"I think I've been in love with him since middle school, but how can I just go up to him and say something like that?"_

It was Christine's handwriting, but she refused to give him any details ("we let people buy them anonymously for a reason, Jeremy") except to assure him that it was not from her.

And Jeremy, the oblivious idiot that he was, had ranted on end about it to Michael, who was extremely bad at hiding his embarrassed guilt.

Lucky for both of them, Christine's shipping powers were better at reading the air than either of them had anticipated (or were themselves), and after a decidedly awkward and red-faced conversation, they decided to get high as fuck and try to forget the issue, and after enough weed, they were loose enough to decide they might as well give it a shot.

If he were being honest, he'd probably take a Valentune over piecing together his own confession any day.

So, the officially unofficial first date was getting stoned in Michael's basement. The higher Jeremy got, the more he wished it was a little more set in stone. Michael was spooning him, nuzzling into his back and running his fingers against Jeremy's sensitive skin. His bones were dissolving and his breath caught in his throat as warm syrup seeped around inside him. He could get drunk off of this alone.

"Hey, Michael?" he said. Michael made a vague noise of acknowledgement, his breath tickling against the back of Jeremy's neck. "Can we try something?"

"Hmm... sure," Michael slurred. He pressed a slight kiss to the nape of Jeremy's neck, and waves of electricity spread out from the spot. Okay. Okay. Michael was usually extra touchy when he was high. He was just much less coherent than Jeremy thought he was right now. "What're we trying?" An itchy heat in Jeremy's stomach reminded him that he might be done for. He was in deeper than he thought.

"I--uh..." _Can we kiss? Can we make out? Can I just… just touch you? Can we actually do this right now instead of sitting here and pretending it's not happening?_ The possibilities swam in Jeremy's head, and he was suddenly very grateful that he was not quite as high as Michael, or he might not be able to keep them trapped inside his mouth. "Shotgunning?" He choked out instead.

Michael leaned up to rest his chin on Jeremy's shoulder and look at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. His cheeks were tinted pink, his mouth pouting open, and Jeremy really wished they could get on with it. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him _so_ bad and he had for so long, and he was so damn close, his skin buzzed with it. They both knew they wanted this. Why couldn't he just ask the actual question itching in his brain?

"Yeah," Michael said. "We can give that a shot." He snorted. "Heh. Shotgunning. A _shot._ "

"You're really high."

"Hell yeah I am."

Jeremy's nerves were fried. He was itchy. He swallowed. It didn't help. "Cool," he said. Looks like they were doing this. "Do you know how?"

Fumbling around on the carpet for their burnt-out joint and lighter, Michael shrugged. "In theory. How hard can it be?"

That wasn't particularly comforting, but Jeremy was too far gone to really care _how_ Michael's lips ended up on his. He nodded and shifted so he was sitting in front of him on the floor. A better angle than having them both falling off their beanbags mid-hit. Jeremy bit his lip and must've zoned out (he _was_ still super high, after all), because the next thing he knew, Michael was waving a hand in front of his face and staring at him in question.

"You alright dude?" he said.

Jeremy's throat was dry. Probably from the weed. "Never better."

"Alright." And before Jeremy could process, Michael brought the joint to his lips and inhaled. His glasses had been abandoned on the floor at some point, and Jeremy was hyper-fixated on his eyelids fluttering (his heart totally didn't flutter with them, shut up), and then he was leaning in. Shit, he was leaning in. Jeremy wasn't ready. He was about to kiss his best friend. Yeah, sure, there was smoke involved. They didn't need to actually meet in the middle—he didn't think so, anyway. But like.

It was Valentine's day and he was high off his ass. Jeremy was gonna let himself be self-indulgent.

Michael's lips opened against his, blowing smoke down Jeremy's throat. He ignored the hot scratch, much more focused on the way Michael's hands came to grip at his cardigan and how—even amidst the pot reek—he smelled like a convenience store. And like... Like childhood. Like Michael. Jeremy supposed that made some kind of sense, considering he'd known Michael's smell long enough that it had become its own qualifier. He was warm, every point of contact burning against Jeremy's skin and licking its way up his spine. He smelled Michael-y. His lips were soft and pressed back into him with a sort of nervous hunger that Jeremy could _so_ relate to, even when his brain was much too fuzzy to put the words to it.

The smoke dissipated between them, blown back and forth and vanishing along with the pretense. Fuck pretense. Fuck excuses. They were young, they were stupid, and they liked each other. They could make out if they damn well pleased.

Unfortunately, their crippling need for oxygen didn't seem to agree. Jeremy pulled away, gasping. Michael panted, still clinging to him, and still just inches away. His eyes were red and glossy, and his nervous grin made Jeremy want to lean back in and devour him.

"We're really doing this, huh?" he said.

Jeremy shrugged. "Why not?"

Michael laughed, burying his face into Jeremy's collarbone. That fluttery itching in his insides was back. "I could tell you a million reasons why not. I had a pros and cons list," he said.

Jeremy pressed his nose into Michael's hair. Yeah, it smelled Michael-y, too. Vaguely like the tropical shampoo his mom tended to buy for him. The butterflies got worse. "What if I don't care about pros and cons?"

Michael giggled again. The vibrations resonated in Jeremy's bones. "You will once you're not high."

“I’m not _that_ high,” Jeremy protested.

“Are too.”

"Well… Well you're higher."

"Duh. I'm taller."

Jeremy snorted. "That has nothing to do with it, dummy," he said.

"Does too."

"Does not."

"Oh my... f-fuck," Michael said, lifting his head out of Jeremy's neck. "Shut up and kiss me if you don't care so much."

His insides itched, and Jeremy was starting to like it. He brought his fingers up to scratch at Michael's scalp, reveling in the way he whined and melted into his lap. Fuck it, it was Valentine's Day. Pressing their lips together again—soft, fluttery, itchy—Jeremy decided he liked it. He really, really liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!  
> I should definitely be asleep. It's not even that late, but I'm so exhausted. Oh well. I felt a need to finish my Valentine's fic on Valentine's Day, so here we are.  
> My entire knowledge of shotgunning comes from this fandom, so it might not be very accurate. Whoops. 
> 
> I adore feedback, so please feel free to tell me what you thought!


End file.
